


Something Akin

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M, HP: EWE, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is at least one thing Hermione Granger likes more in the wizarding world, something the Muggle world just cannot offer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Akin

**Author's Note:**

> This work is intended as a transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> Beta'd by eucalyptus, in her convalescence, propped up on pillows and painkillers. I'm even more grateful than ever for her support, guidance, and enthusiasm!
> 
> Prompt: snowman

The question is so absurd she stops walking and turns, all the better for him to see the exasperation on her face. Sunlight from the windows lining the hallway hits her square in the eye and she squints, momentarily unable to make out his features with his back to the light. She’s pulling in breath to fuel her response when he holds up his hand.

“Spare me your shock. I’ve listened to you go on – Muggle this, ingenuity that – and I think the question bears repeating. _Is_ there anything in the wizarding world you like better?”

Hermione plants her feet on the marble floor and her fists on her hips. “I’ve never said either world was better than the other. That’s my point. For everything we have, they—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Malfoy puffs out his chest and raises his chin. “’The engineering of Muggle amusement parks is positively _inspired_. Truly, you would be _amazed_ at their genius with cleaning products.... and their _lawn_ ornaments are just to die—”

“You are completely missing my—”

“—and I feel like there is so much more _charm_ in what they make and accomplish that—”

“Alright!” Hermione huffs. Realizing Malfoy is mimicking her stance exactly, she straightens herself as subtly as possible. He’s exaggerating her speech patterns though; she doesn’t speak in italics _that_ much. “I hear what you’re saying, but you’re mischaracterizing my argument. I’m saying that everything they have is just as good.”

“Yes, but if everything is empirically, quantitatively equal, then it begs the question: is there anything _qualitatively_ better? What do you enjoy more?”

Hermione’s stomach twists, not sure about this turn in the conversation. She answers carefully. “It’s an unfair comparison. I grew up in the Muggle world, so I experience each rather equally. But the wizarding world is my _home_.”

A stiffness intrudes upon Malfoy’s playfulness, and he suddenly seems uncomfortable against the backdrop of Malfoy Manor’s opulence and history. “I wasn’t...” He clears his throat. “That’s indisputable.”

Good. There’s been nothing charging the air between them besides barely relevant debate for a while now, and she doesn’t want that to change.

“Well, the magical world is obviously more impressive overall, and the harnessing of magic is challenging at the same time that it makes life easier... there are still so many things that I long to study and understand.”

“But more enjoyable, Granger. Something you prefer.” Blond eyebrows arch, questioning. “Anything?”

She can’t quite decipher his expression; it’s a combination of the victory he feels at having cornered her (which she has, admittedly, seen on more than one occasion) and genuine hopefulness. Not knowing what to do with it, Hermione does what she usually does in a situation such as this: she deflects.

“Well, I couldn’t possibly go into it all now, Malfoy, because I really need to keep to my schedule.” Hoping the heat she feels in her cheeks isn’t actually visible, she makes a show of checking the watch on her wrist. “So, if we could just carry on with the inspection. I haven’t got all day.” She gestures down the hallway toward his father’s study and continues in her most efficient stride.

“You haven’t?” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice over the click of her heels against tile. “You could have fooled me.”

 **~*:*~**

The list is like a mantra, minus the spiritual expansion and sense of peace. Items and tasks are added at twice the rate they fall off, but it’s an accessory now, one she carries everywhere with her like a pocketbook.

Quarterly report to Nelson. Get Grandma’s recipe for spinach soufflé for Luna’s bridal shower. Fitting with Ginny (note: talk her out of the peach taffeta). Sign up for yoga class. Organize games for Lavender’s baby shower. Confirm order with Colette’s Cakery and delivery for next Saturday. Finish knitting hat and booties by Thursday. Rearrange Friday’s meeting with Head of Muggle Relations to next Tuesday.

Christmas shopping with Mum. Watch and slippers for Dad, bath products and linens for cousins Veronica and Phillipa, respectively, and silk pajamas for Auntie Katherine. New cocktail dress for Luna’s Hen Night, accessories for family brunch, dyeable slingbacks: four-inch heel. Drop-off silver clutch for repair and pick-up by December 31st.

Buy party favors for Lily’s first birthday party. Shop Diagon Alley for Christmas presents: Merlin’s Make-Believe for James, Albus, Lily, Fred, Roxanne, Dominique, Louis, and Lucy; Flourish and Blotts for Victoire; Quality Quidditch for Teddy, Harry, and Ron. Madam Malkin’s for Ginny. Harriet’s Home and Garden for Molly and Arthur. Confirm sale of stock with Gringotts and transfer funds from savings.

Pull decorations out of attic storage. Draft petition to the Wizengamot for amendment to bylaws. Buy kitty litter.

The list has repeated seventeen and a half times in the past five minutes without a priority rearranging itself to the top of it. Usually this process gives her the impetus to start whatever rises to the surface, begging to be tackled next, but she’s suddenly paralyzed without a clue as to her next move.

Staring at the snowflakes swirling about in the globe on her desk doesn’t help to clear her head, but instead gives a sudden jolt of inspiration. Swinging her legs down from atop the desk, she is upright and out of the chair in one deft movement.

The mantra simmers faintly in the background as she hurries out of her office.

 **~*:*~**

“Oh, _hi_.” Malfoy saunters into the front drawing room. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Hermione doesn’t even register his tone, buzzing as she is with what she’s come to tell him. “Snowmen,” she blurts.

He’s genuinely startled, and his smirk disappears accordingly. “Pardon me?”

“I prefer snowmen in the wizarding world. Well, to be more accurate, I’m positively disturbed by Muggle ones and was rather relieved to find years ago that they’re much different with magic.” She bounces on the balls of her feet, so pleased with herself that she doesn’t notice his blank look.

He shakes his head and it takes a couple of tries before he successfully responds. “Exactly how are snowmen ‘disturbing,’ Granger?”

“Oh, well, I guess they’re not. But when I was six, an older boy who lived up the street told me that snowmen were actually _real_ men frozen inside the snow. I can’t remember how he said that happened, but I think I figured it was something like the Tin Man in _The Wizard of Oz_.” All she gets in response is a furrowed brow, so she continues. “See, a Muggle snowman doesn’t actually look like a real man. It's just three balls of snow, stacked with largest on bottom and smallest on top, with buttons or coal for eyes, a carrot for a nose, stick arms...”

Hermione tries to demonstrate, but it's difficult while holding her briefcase. Malfoy watches her, shaking his head, his point of reference in the wizarding world more akin to Muggle ice sculpture, which look like actual snow _men_ (and women, of course).

“The point is, they look like there could be a man huddled inside the packed snow – so much so that I used to be afraid to get too close to one, in case they were about to burst out of it to... come and get me.” She sighs at Malfoy's barely silenced snort. “Okay, fine, but you have to admit the imagery is disturbing, regardless. I’m no longer afraid of them, of course, but now I can’t get over the thought of being trapped inside, packed in snow. I shudder a bit every time I see one.”

Malfoy shakes his head in wonderment. “And you say Muggles are afraid of silly things like ghosts?”

“Well, I think you might be missing my greater point, but... people do fear and avoid things they don’t understand.”

A full laugh comes from him then, and it lightens the air in the room. “Well, I don’t know about that. I can’t say I’m afraid of _you_ , Granger, though I definitely don’t understand anything that goes on under that bushy hair. Unfortunately, I can’t actually avoid—”

“Ha, ha, Malfoy. It’s not all that strange. I just have an aversion to snowmen.”

“Yes, and it would seem an aversion to anything resembling normal, polite conversation. I mean, most of the time you start strong, asking about work or family or something, but before long you take a rather dramatic and bizarre turn toward something like fifteenth century wand-making or animal husbandry. It’s rather jarring.”

The twinkle in his eyes is tempting, but her scowl is firm. “I couldn’t possibly ask you about work, Malfoy, as I haven’t a clue what it is you _do_.”

“Why nothing,” he says with a wide grin. “Nothing but live for the fleeting joy of your visits.”

She pushes back her shoulders, both hands holding her briefcase tightly by the handle. “Ah yes. Speaking of which, let’s get on to the cellar to check—”

“Actually, Granger, I was about to have tea.” He clears his throat and presses his lips together in that way he does when he’s not quite confident of what he’s saying. “How about you join me?”

The only thing unusual in this is the invitation; she’s taken tea at Malfoy Manor with him plenty of times, but usually only when it’s served in the middle of one of their conversations, or she’s overstayed and he’s missed lunch. Taken aback for a second, she’s opening her mouth to respond when he presses on.

“It’ll be an opportunity for you to give this whole ‘conversation’ thing another go. We’ll start small – say, moving from family to work to current events – and you can even take notes on that little clipboard of yours.” Hermione’s driest glare only spurs him on. “And then, if I feel you’re ready for it, we can even introduce politics. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Bugger off, Malfoy,” she snaps, but since she’s taking off her coat and putting down her things to sit on the sofa, it doesn’t quite carry the necessary heat.

 **~*:*~**

Over the course of the past decade, Hermione has come up with a rather effective strategy for getting through family gatherings. She’s had it in place for years now, and it’s served her well through the long slide from her late twenties to her thirtieth birthday; a challenging course when you’re the only one without a traditional life or predictable family plan.

The strategy is relatively fluid, adjusting to accommodate the reactions and input from those assembled, but the outline Hermione utilizes for The Granger Family Annual Christmas Bruncheon, 2009 (her dad thinks it’s punny) is as follows:  


  

  1. Discuss second (and third) cousins, grandbabies, nieces and nephews. Keep the focus on them as much as possible to keep the conversation off of herself. Experience has shown that this is not difficult.
  

  2. During lulls in the conversation, bring up television shows which are new and trendy or long-running and beloved. Research prior to the gathering is essential to hone-in on those likely to get the conversation flowing, as well as to avoid anything that will cause controversy. Cousin Gareth’s plate-throwing fiasco of 2006 (caused by her remark that she actually liked the ninth _Doctor Who_ more than the tenth) was a memorable misstep she wants to avoid repeating.
  

  3. Comments on the interior decorating, gardening and/or newly acquired jewelry of the hostess are generally successful in a pinch, and best utilized when helping with the cooking, place-setting, table-clearing and/or dishes-drying.
  

  4. When absolutely, positively unavoidable, try again (unsuccessfully) to explain what she does for a living (to those in the family who know of her status as a witch – which is roughly a third of them) in such a way that it doesn’t make them excitedly describe a recent episode of _Prime Suspect_ or _CSI_ as parallel.
  

  5. When the previous topic inevitably yields to questions regarding her personal life and plans for the future (read: marriage and family), describe the career track from the MLE to the Wizengamot in dramatic ways that mimic British Parliamentary politics. (For sheer amusement, pepper it with anecdotes that correspond to events in the career of Tony Blair as portrayed by Michael Sheen in any of the dozen times he’s played him on the big and small screen to see if they understand better in that context.)
  

  
This year, however, tactic number one is already a bust; the children are past the baby and toddler age where they just naturally suck all the attention in the room, yet haven’t reached the point where they’re capable of interesting conversation themselves. Worse, Hermione’s packed schedule left far too little time for research – much less the actual television watching – necessary to make a real go of the second tactic, and as the gathering was held at her mum and dad’s, the third would come off as oddly cloying and insincere.

Thus, she evokes The Mayday Contingency: drink an entire bottle of wine, and follow with double-helpings of chocolate torte. Now, she doesn’t remember what she’s been asked, much less what she’s said, and that’s just as good.

 **~*:*~**

Hermione loses her train of thought in the middle of her point, drifting off as she gazes out the window of the front drawing room to the manor garden cloaked in a sea of white. The wizarding snowmen flanking the path are melting in the afternoon sun, surprisingly warm after last night’s storm.

“Malfoy?” Her call to the silence behind her is greeted with an affirmative hum. “Do you ever feel like, when you’re driving – or flying, rather... Have you ever been flying your broom, through trees or around buildings or wherever, and while you’re turning and twisting, avoiding obstacles and running the course, have you ever had a moment where you imagine what it would be like to _not_ turn, to _not_ avoid the tree or the turret or whatever is in your path? Do you ever wonder if you could go against your instinct to steer clear... just to see?”

She turns to look at him lounging on the settee. The bright light from the window cuts across him, making him fairly sparkle against the royal blue velvet, but it’s the grey of his eyes that hold her, shining arrestingly as he studies her without judgment. She looks into them for a moment but has to look away before picking up where she left off.

“If you think about it long enough, you start to get afraid you’re not going to turn in time. As if your instincts will simply fail, or your curiosity will win out and you’ll fly into solid wood or stone or drive into the nothingness over that cliff.” She takes a deep breath, and it shudders on its way back out. “Sometimes it feels like you’re using all of your strength to keep on course, like it’s taking all of your energy to _not_ turn toward disaster... toward the unknown.

“And there’s this tension that keeps you from doing it, but it feels like that could just snap at any moment. That energy keeps you going and moving and bobbing and weaving, and it holds you together, keeping you packed in tight. It filters out the noise but traps you inside.”

She straightens from leaning against the cold window, welcome in the overheated room, and turns to look at him. Expecting a blank stare, a raised eyebrow, or even a look of fear or disgust, she’s surprised to see him leveling her with an understanding she’s never before seen in his eyes. It emboldens her. “Do you ever feel like that?”

“Sure,” he says simply.

“What do you do?”

“I stop.”

Hermione moves a few halting steps closer to him at that, not entirely sure she’s heard him correctly. “You... stop?”

“Yeah. I return to the ground. I stop. I don’t need anything to filter out the noise. I can just ignore all of it.”

Well, then. That’s all well and good for Malfoy, but they’re nothing alike. Hermione’s life is nothing like his; her responsibilities, goals, and the expectations put upon her are like living things that must be tended. None of this – what happens here with him – is reality. If it were, it wouldn’t be nearly this pleasant to visit. She shakes her head and is turning back toward the window when he speaks.

“Granger? The Statute for the Disposal and Monitoring of Dark Objects states that anything identified as such is to be inspected by an Agent of Magical Law Enforcement once or twice annually, right?“

The blush blooms on her cheeks and spreads like wildfire. “At _least_ once or twice a year, but depending on how dangerous the object or objects in question are deemed to be, that can be expanded to fit the circumstances.”

Malfoy nods evenly. “Well, that Whitby bloke before you came only once a year. I’ve seen you at least once a week for the past three months. Is there something I should know about the status of Great-Great-Grandfather Cygnus’ dagger or Cousin Callidora’s opal necklace?”

She clears her throat, not quite able to look him in the eye. “Yes, well, there’s also Phineas Nigellus’ sea chest in the cellar, which I’m having positively no luck researching. It’s a long process evaluating them. You never can be too careful.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Indeed. Shall I tell Mother and Father to stay in France for the time being?” He dips his chin and looks up at her from under raised brows. “Just to be safe?”

“Well,” she says, bending to pick up her briefcase, clumsily missing it on the first and second try. “I can’t advise you that far, but it’s your call, if you think it’s best.” She straightens and pushes back her shoulders. “I should probably be—”

“Brilliant,” he says as he sits up and snaps his fingers for the house-elf. “Time for tea, then?”

It’s not unexpected or unprecedented, but this time it feels like something different. She has many things to do and places to go, but right now there is nowhere else she’d rather be. If she had time, if she knew how to stop, she’d examine that. But as it is, she lives moment to moment, the tension keeping her moving and bobbing and weaving.

“Well, alright,” Hermione says, making a show of looking at her watch as she sits on the sofa opposite him. “I have some time cleared this afternoon.”

She ignores his triumphant grin.

 **~*:*~**

It takes an hour and a half sitting in her parlor staring into the fire for the words to sink in.

Harry, Ginny, and Ron had effectively cornered her while she was trying to clean up after Lily’s birthday party on the 23rd. What followed had felt like an intervention.

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, of course you’re fine. You’re always fine. You’re _pathologically_ fine,” Harry had said with a sigh, not even looking up from wiping his glasses off on his shirt.

“‘Pathologically?’ What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“It’s like you know exactly what ‘fine’ looks like, Hermione... and you’re just really, really good at mimicking it.” Ron had looked rather sheepish, but she couldn’t deny that he sounded sincere – once she got over the shock of _him_ being the one trying to talk sense.

“You don’t have to do everything just to prove you can, like life is some speed or endurance test.” Ginny had sat down for the first time that day without a baby on her lap or a toddler clamoring for her attention. She’d looked exhausted, but Hermione had learned long ago to listen when she had something to say. “Your choices don’t have to be justified to anyone. Not to anyone that matters.”

Hermione had felt dizzy, as though someone had just pointed out that the sky was purple. It seemed positively idiotic not to have noticed before.

At the end of that hour and a half in her parlor, staring into the fire, Hermione realizes something terribly shocking.

She’s stopped.

She’s not doing any of the things on her list. She’s not even _thinking_ about the damn list, and her heart isn’t palpitating, her palms aren’t sweating. What’s more, none of the worst-case scenarios she’s always been sure were lurking just out of view have come to pass.

Though she doesn’t quite understand it, she’s always been able to recognize an epiphany when she has one. Hermione is not and never has been one for half-measures, so the plan of action that follows is only a logical progression, launched in the spirit of academic research.

Take Auntie Katherine’s, Phillipa’s and Veronica’s presents to the post office for shipping. Diagon Owlery to post the presents for James, Albus, Lily, Fred, Roxanne, Dominique, Louis, Lucy, Victoire, Teddy, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Molly, and Arthur.

Call Mum and Dad to say that she won’t be able to make it to Christmas Eve Dinner and church services, as she’s been invited on a four-day trip to Paris with the Potter-Weasleys. Floo-call Molly and Arthur to say she won’t be able to make it to Christmas morning and the evening dinner, as she’s been invited on a four-day trip to Paris with her mum and dad. Disconnect the phone. Disconnect the Floo.

Run the bath as hot as possible. Stay in there until her skin is alarmingly pruny. Crawl into bed and sleep ‘til noon. Awake to find that she has to remind herself that the new day is Christmas Eve. Make pancakes and leave the dishes in the sink to wash later. Paint toenails. Order takeaway. Begin on stack of movies bought but never watched in the past four years. Eat an entire pint of chocolate ice cream without stopping and without shame. Enjoy the absolute silence in her head.

Rinse, repeat.

 **~*:*~**

Somewhere around eight o’clock Christmas evening, Hermione becomes a little restless and decides it’s not a breach of The Great Holiday Experiment to give into it. Being that this particular restlessness comes with a craving for shepherd’s pie, she bundles up and heads out to The Leaky Cauldron.

Walking into the cozy and warm but strangely quiet pub, she freezes at the sight of a familiar flash of white-blond hair in the back corner booth.

Hermione doesn’t believe in any spirit of Christmas or angels or any of that rot. Still, she’s hard pressed to think of a better explanation than the magic of fate for Malfoy being here, now, smack dab in the middle of her adventure. A tingle starts at the crown of her head and reaches to the tips of her toes as she’s drawn to him, pulled as though he’s her only logical destination.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

His head shoots up from his magazine, eyes wide, looking around behind her as though expecting some sort of bogeyman or film crew. “Wh— what are you doing here?”

She uncharacteristically giggles. “I’m not here, actually. If anyone asks, I’m in Paris.” Uninvited, she flops down to sit opposite him.

He stares agape for a moment, then his eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

She nods proudly. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be somewhere in France? Why aren’t you with your parents?”

“I stopped spending holidays with them by default years ago. I think they’re doing some sort of pub crawl in Bavaria with a few other couples of their acquaintance. I’d rather not know what they get up to anymore, frankly.”

“I slept ‘til noon today,” she says preening, leaning forward to mock whisper, “and I lied to just about everyone I know.”

He laughs. “Don’t try to do nothing all at once, Granger, or that’s no progress whatsoever. Try not to work so hard at underachieving.”

“I’m just having fun,” she sniffs, taking off her mittens. “What are you doing here, anyway? Wouldn’t you normally be eating at home?”

“Well,” he says, shifting uncomfortably, ”I can’t cook, and... the house-elves are off today.” She doesn’t have time to register her shock before he rushes on to say, “Besides, I had a Floo-conference with our office in Russia, and the network is always buggy on holidays. The one here is always working though.”

“You had a conference...? With Russia?”

“Yeah, it’s tomorrow morning there already, and they don’t celebrate Boxing Day.” At her silence, Malfoy is immediately gleeful. “You actually thought I didn’t work?” He laughs at her unattractive impression of a fish as response. “You did! I would have thought you’d have found out everything about me in all of your _research_.” His challenge is giddy and clear.

“Well, it’s slow going... ”

“Indeed? By all means, take your time. I happen to manage the investment portfolio for Malfoy Enterprises, but I work from home – all the better to receive your visits, dear Granger.” His grin is wickedly feral.

Though she’s strangely nonplussed at being caught-out, she doesn’t know what to do with the odd things he’s doing to her belly. Thus, Hermione does what she’s learned well to do at times like these: she deflects.

Picking up the menu, she scans it, hiding her flushed face. “I’m famished. I’m hoping Tom’s still got some shepherd’s pie left. Have you eaten?”

“No, I haven’t,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Throughout ordering, eating, and dessert, Hermione successfully deflects and ignores any and all confusing things Malfoy does until his abrupt suggestion that she show him a Muggle snowman gets them up, out, and walking the streets of London arm in arm.

The city is beautiful like this, with a dust of snow falling on lighted houses as the soft sounds of exhausted revelers resist putting the holiday to bed. There’s a park near enough with a rather fine specimen of snowman, complete with coal eyes, carrot nose, hat, and pipe. They take it in for a long moment before Malfoy interrupts the silence.

“It’s creepy.”

“Not to most people. It's supposed to be fun.”

“No, it’s not just you, Granger. Its eyes, and those stiff, prickly arms make it look like death. Like those still, Muggle photographs look like death.”

Hermione side-eyes him to check if he’s joking, but there is a genuine look of fear on his face. She finds it unexpectedly endearing. “I saw this special on the telly last night called _The Snowman_ ,” she says, and he turns to her expectantly. ”And it reminded me of the Hans Christian Andersen story of the same name— he’s a Muggle writer...” She makes a fluttering gesture dismissing all of that as beside the point.

“It’s about a snowman who falls in love with a stove—” She cuts off at his surprised laugh. “Yes, well, he’s just been made – just born, you see – so he doesn’t know the difference. And though a dog keeps telling him that the stove will kill him, the snowman longs to be inside, to be near her, to be warm.”

“What happens?” Malfoy asks lowly.

“Oh, the thaw comes, and the snowman melts, never having had his love requited – having yearned for something that would destroy him.” Hermione feels foolish at the tears gathering in her eyes, but stories of futility and quiet desperation always hurt her heart.

“But, if snowmen really were trapped, frozen men like you thought,” he says carefully, “then the thaw of the sun or the stove... would free them, wouldn’t it?”

She laughs through the tears, marveling. “Yes. Thank you, Malfoy. That’s an excellent way to look at it. Actually, at the very end of the story, the dog finds a stove poker in the snowman’s remains that was used to build it. It was the poker which moved the snowman to want the stove... it was a part of him that recognized something akin.”

The sudden heat of Malfoy’s gaze throws her. She’s drawn to it and unable to look away. Her heart beats wildly and her train of thought follows.

“It’s funny, but I’ve never seen any Christmas programs before because my mum didn’t like me to watch cartoons. They’re not quite the same, but they’re close enough that she worried I’d get used to them. So there are all kinds of things Muggle children are familiar with which I know nothing of. Disney films, holiday specials, Saturday morning—”

Warm, gloved hands cradle her face only a fraction of a second before soft lips capture hers in a kiss. She’s only just giving herself over to it, taking a quick breath before parting her lips to press more firmly when he’s pulling away. She blinks at him, dazed, waiting.

“Granger. Have you ever been in a conversation, listening to someone talk, and you’re completely engaged, but it suddenly feels as though you’re about to lose control, like you’re going to just up and kiss them? You can’t stop focusing on their mouth, and it’s as though all you’re doing is actively _not_ kissing them. It usually happens at the most inopportune times, and it takes all of your energy to not just grab them and... snog them senseless.” His eyes burn through the whiteness and the cold around him. “Do you ever feel like that?”

Hermione looks at him, taken with the way the snowflakes are catching in his hair, golden in the streetlights. She feels something then, a part of her reaching out to that same something in him, and she nods.

“What do you do?” he asks, voice raspy.

She reaches up with her woolly-mittened hands and takes a firm hold of his jaw, pulling him down as she raises on her toes. Then, parting her lips and pressing firmly, she gives a proper answering snog.

Malfoy’s arms hold her tightly against him, the lights and life of Christmas go dim around them, and the snow melts and falls off of her in chunks.

 

 **~*the end*~**


End file.
